


and you on my mind

by seabright



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-03
Updated: 2011-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-19 14:58:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/202106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seabright/pseuds/seabright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>You say that you don’t want any of Easy to know that you’re in Boston but you give me your address.</i>  Following a relationship through the end of the war and beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	and you on my mind

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was written for [](http://jeanquirieplus.livejournal.com/profile)[**jeanquirieplus**](http://jeanquirieplus.livejournal.com/) because she's a baller and has helped me out so many times, both fandomwise & IRL, and deserves to have so much more fic written for her. This fic literally would not exist without [](http://uniformly.livejournal.com/profile)[**uniformly**](http://uniformly.livejournal.com/)'s help and encouragement and handholding through my own insecurities of writing new characters. <33 Massive props to [](http://spirograph.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://spirograph.livejournal.com/)**spirograph** for looking this over. :D Any remaining mistakes are entirely my own fault.

Lipton turns over in his sleep and coughs himself awake.

The moonlight slants in through the fractured line of broken glass and curtains, the last of February winds rolling over the sheets tangled in his legs. There is a burning hurt in his lungs and he wants to curl up on himself but it makes it harder to breathe. He feels cold but his sheets are damp.

For a few moments, he looks at the far end of the room. There is a painting of an old lady without a frame, staring at him from under dark eyebrows, her thin lips pressed into a frown. He imagines her mouth opening and stern words rolling out, berating him. He thinks that she is unfamiliar, hanging over an unfamiliar dresser, in an unfamiliar room that blurs periodically out of focus.

“Lipton,” a voice says to his left. Lipton straightens out, causing the sheets tighten around his waist. The muted sound of snoring and the indistinct rumble of aircraft comes in and out of focus through the thin walls. The inside of his mouth tastes bitter and his tongue feels too thick in his mouth.

Speirs pushes himself up into a sit and looks at Lipton from over the edge of the bed.

“Sorry for interrupting your—” Lipton manages before a round of coughing stops him mid sentence. He can’t finish the sentence so he ends weakly, “Sir.”

“How are you feeling?” Speirs leans in towards him, dark eyes intent on his face.

Lipton responds by closing his eyes and drawing in a breath that rattles in his lungs.

Speirs doesn’t say anything else but he doesn’t look away either. Lipton tries to suppress a cough but it forces its way out of him anyway, causing him to sit up. A static-like burst of light appears before his eyes as he coughs—a long series of wheezes—and then it stops, the new silence broken only by the sound of his painful inhales as his vision clears.

The snoring has been replaced by a low conversation drifting up from beneath the floorboards. He’s bothering his men. He needs to be quieter.

Lipton moves so that he is sitting on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees in a position that makes it easier to breathe. He has his eyes closed and he’s half considering whether or not he can fall asleep sitting up when the mattress dips next to him. Speirs doesn’t quite touch him but he’s close enough that Lipton can feel the heat seeping off him. He fights the urge to lean into it, tenses up against the shivers that threaten to shake his body.

“Sorry,” Lipton whispers, fingers clenching into the thick fabric over his knees.

Speirs settles a hand on his back. “No problem,” he says, “You need more rest, sergeant.”

They sit in silence for a long minute. Lipton dozes and in his inattention, he neglects to fight off the shivering. He’s half aware of a hand moving across his back in slow sweeps—back and forth—and his fingers loosen against his legs, elbows going slack.

When he opens his eyes again, he is leaning against a warm body and the sheet is draped around his shoulders. Speirs still has an arm around him, and he’s not looking at anything in particular, seemingly lost in thought. Lipton lifts his head from Speirs’s shoulder, but doesn’t have the willpower to shift away from the warmth of the other man’s side.

“How long—?”

Speirs turns his head to look at him with the same guarded expression Lipton’s long gotten used to. For a moment it looks as if there’s a smile threatening to tug at the corners of his lips but Lipton isn’t sure if it’s real or imagined. “Just a couple of minutes. You should get back to sleep.”

“Right,” Lipton murmurs, pulling away. Speirs’s hand slips from his back and Lipton draws the thin sheets tighter around himself. He pulls his legs back up onto the bed as Speirs stands up, turning on his side as Speirs moves around the end of the bed and closes the curtains, tying the drapes together with quick movements.

Lipton wants to say thank you but he closes his eyes and breathes out and he is asleep before he knows it.

_____

Lipton can hear them approaching long before he sees them. He has memorized the rhythm of their strides: Lieutenant Speirs’s crisp steps, the way that Captain Nixon’s boots drag across the gravel every few steps. There are few men in his company with the capability of sneaking up on him.

He focuses his attention back onto the gun he’s reassembling, slotting the pieces back together with ease, the metallic scrapes and clicks comforting in their familiarity. He has oil streaks along his hands when Speirs steps into the doorway, scribbling something onto a pad of paper. He looks up and Lipton meets his eyes.

“Sergeant,” Speirs greets, “They released you that fast?”

“Never went to the hospital. I’m feeling much better today.”

Speirs’s eyes shift to the disassembled M1 on the table and he lowers the pad as he steps into the room to let Winters and Nixon in. Winters smiles when he sees Lipton.

“Good to see you up and about, Lip.”

“Glad to be up and about, sir.”

Winters turns towards Speirs. “I expect the shipment to come in later today. We should distribute them as soon as possible.”

“Sir.”

“The thirty-sixth will be relieving us soon. Maybe not within the day but they’re on their way. We’re not moving anywhere yet but think about how you want to condense Easy.”

“Where are we going, sir?”

“Back to Mourmelon-le-Grand,” Nixon speaks up from his position leaning against the doorframe, “Figured you guys could use a little R & R.”

Lipton smiles at the news. The boys have more than deserved the time off. Speirs nods and looks back down at his pad.

“Stay well, Lip,” Winters says to Lipton before looking back at Speirs. He nods once, “Lieutenant.”

“Sir.”

Winters smiles again and he leaves. Nixon nods at the two of them before following Winters out.

Lipton looks at Speirs, “The second patrol?”

“Not happening.”

Lipton lets out a breath, “Good.”

Speirs leans against the back of a chair at the table, “Why are you up?”

“What shipment is coming in?”

Speirs looks at him, frowning—but he answers anyway, “Fresh first aid kits.”

“Great. That’s good. Doc will be pleased.”

“He probably wouldn’t be particularly pleased that you’re not even trying to rest,” Speirs observes neutrally.

Lipton looks at Speirs. Speirs pulls a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket and knocks one into his palm before stopping and looking back up at Lipton. He tips the pack back—the cigarette slides back into place amongst the others—and tucks the pack back into his pocket.

“You can go ahead and smoke,” Lipton says, “I won’t be here for long.”

Speirs doesn’t pull the pack out again, just picks up a piece of the disassembled gun and turns it over in his hands.

“I’m doing pretty well, Lieutenant,” Lipton continues, “You really don’t need to worry about me.”

“Hm,” Speirs doesn’t look particularly moved by Lipton’s assurances—but then again, Lipton isn’t particularly sure what exactly could move the man. He sets the piece down and nods once at Lipton, “Sergeant.”

He taps a cigarette into his hand as he steps out the door. He lights it with a last look back at Lipton before he steps out of view.

_____

The sun slips behind the mountains, slanting orange light through the baby leaves of early spring and painting dappled geometric shapes against the grass. Mourmelon-le-Grand hums with the activity of men cleaning up after dinner, low chatter and laughter drifting through open doors. Speirs stands under the overhang of the supplies building, clipboard tucked in the crook of an elbow, and a cigarette between his lips. He’s watching a group of enlisted men around a table at the kitchen across the street.

“You know,” Lipton says casually as he steps out of the supplies building, “They might be inclined to do something more interesting than talk if they weren’t so concerned about your staring.”

Speirs turns his head to look at Lipton. He pauses for a moment and then, “I don’t harbor any prejudice against gambling.”

“No sir. I mean, you have a natural talent for looting.”

“Requisition.”

“Right.”

Speirs pauses and looks at him him. Lipton thinks that he’s suppressing a smile, but he can’t be sure. Behind him, Luz deals the cards onto the table, Shifty looks at his hand and groans, and Talbert catches Lipton’s eye with a grin.

“The men don’t have anything to fear from me.”

Lipton can’t help but think back to their conversation in the convent. He doesn’t know if Speirs means it to the same extent that he is interpreting it and he feels a little foolish for reading so deeply into a simple statement. He smiles, “I’m sure they feel the same way, sir.”

Speirs pulls out a pack of cigarettes and holds it out. He doesn’t say anything but the invitation is clear and Lipton barely hesitates before taking one. Speirs flicks open his lighter (no doubt purloined) and offers Lipton the flame.

Lipton touches at Speirs’s wrist to hold the flame steady as he leans in and then he leans back with smoke curling out around the cigarette. Maybe having a cigarette isn’t the best idea while the last echoes of his pneumonia still occasionally manifest in coughing fits—but Lipton breathes in the smoke anyway. He pulls it from between his lips and grins at the other man, “I’m half expecting you to pull out a machine gun.”

There’s no doubting it this time—a smile does momentarily appear on Speirs’s face. “Where are you from, Lieutenant?”

“West Virginia.”

“Never been.”

“Where are you from, sir?”

“Boston.”

Lipton smiles, “Never been. Never been out of Huntington, really.”

Speirs doesn’t say anything in response but he still has his eyes on Lipton’s face. Lipton isn’t sure whether or not the other man is attentive but he continues anyway, “It probably doesn’t hold a candle to Boston but it’s pretty big. There’s definitely a couple tens of thousands of people. When we got tired of the city, we’d just drive out to the woods. West Virginia at this time of year is highly underrated.”

Speirs flicks the ashes from the end of his cigarette. “Maybe I’ll visit someday.”

Lipton’s smile widens a bit, “My brother and I—we’ll show you around.”

“Big family?”

“Just my brother and my mom. We run a boarding house.”

“Is that a lucrative business?”

“It has its ups and downs, just like any other career,” Lipton says. In the corner of his eye, Talbert collects the cigarettes that they’re using for poker chips and making a pyramid with his pile. He taps the end of his cigarette and looks at Speirs, “What did you do stateside?”

Speirs drops the cigarette and crushes it under the heel of his boot, “Studied history at Boston University. Came here.” He pauses. “I’m sure there’s a year or so missing in there but I didn’t do anything worth noting.”

“Are you making a career out of the army, sir?”

Speirs shrugs. “There are worse things to do and worse men to be.” He nods at Lipton and takes a step away from the door, “Good evening, Lieutenant.”

Lipton watches his back for a few moments before calling out, “Sir.” Speirs pauses and turns slightly so that he’s looking at Lipton over his shoulder.

“Congratulations on your promotion, Captain.”

Speirs actually smiles, “Thank you Lipton.”

_____

When they discover the work camp, Lipton wishes that they had never heard of Kaufering. He feels nauseous when he sees the conditions of the laborers trapped within the walls of the camp—but it makes him even more agitated to see the fury on Liebgott’s face, the way that Luz has gone silent. He walks in on Perconte throwing up behind the bushes and quietly makes his retreat. It’s his duty to liberate these prisoners, to help them dig graves for the dead and pass out rations to the living, but at the end of the day, he’s more concerned about the mental health of his boys than anything else.

He’s had the same conversation over and over: how they were doing good in freeing these prisoners, how they were giving them a proper burial—what was done was done and they could only help those remaining—and if they ever need to talk about it, he was there. He doesn’t speak of the overwhelming anger that he’s sure he isn’t alone in feeling—the desire to find the nearest Kraut stronghold or nearest Nazi sympathizers and to burn them to the ground.

Discipline would keep them in place.

It’s dark when he reaches the house where he’s been stationed. There’s a solitary light on in the kitchen, a lone naked bulb that casts a dim light through the open window. It spills weakly into the hallway and leaves the rest of the house untouched. Lipton loosens his tie as he unslings his rifle. He picks up one of the tin cups sitting on the stove and peers into it before filling it with water.

“There’s a camp twenty miles from here.”

Lipton whirls around. Speirs is sitting at the table in the dark dining room. He has his elbows on his knees and his head down. A map is spread out on the table next to him.

“I could take one of the jeeps,” Speirs says, “Load up the back with ammo.”

“Speirs,” Lipton says, taking a step forward.

“They really wouldn’t know what the hell hit them.”

“No.”

“It would take maybe a few hours. I’d snipe around the edges. I could be back before dawn.”

“Are you insane?” he’s close enough to touch the other man now, “You aren’t thinking clearly.”

Speirs doesn’t say anything in reply and he doesn’t lift his head.

“Ron.”

The other man raises his face so that he’s looking at Lipton.

“You’ll be killed.”

Speirs’s expression doesn’t change as he rises to his feet, eyes moving towards the door.

Lipton grabs him by the arm, stepping in close. “We need you here.”

For a moment, it looks as if Speirs will shrug him off as he looks at Lipton.

Speirs is his superior and Lipton still has a grip on his arm. He just addressed the captain by his first name. They’re close enough that Lipton can smell the cigarette smoke lingering in the fabric of Speirs’s open jacket and the unbuttoned shirt. Speirs is looking at him, jaw tense. Lipton isn’t sure if he’s about to be called out on insubordination.

Then Speirs’s shoulders relax and Lipton lets go and steps away. “We should probably get some sleep, sir.”

_____

“Nix,” Winters says, pointing at the man, “You’re with me.”

Nixon glances at the rest of them before setting down the bottle and swinging his legs over the edge of the sunchair. The two of them disappear down the stairwell as Harry pulls Lipton into a hug.

“You know what this means?” Harry laughs as he pulls away from his hug with Lipton, “I’m going home to Kitty. How about that?—a summer wedding.”

“You might want to change out of your uniform and clean up a little before you say your vows.”

“Aw, Lip,” Harry grins, “Kitty’d marry me no matter what I was wearing. You guys on the other hand, I don’t know if I want to invite your ugly mugs to my wedding.”

“Tuxedo requirement for the guests and the groom is allowed to dress however he likes?”

“I’m just kidding Lip, of course you’re invited. You guys are both good looking fellas,” Harry grins at Lipton, “Think she’s already heard?” Without waiting for an answer, he heads for the exit, “Got a letter to compose. Enjoy the view, Lip.”

Lipton looks out over the low wall of the Eagle’s Nest at the surrounding mountains and the pale rooftops of villages tucked into the valleys. Speirs doesn’t even respond as Harry disappears down the stairwell, forehead pressed against his knees.

“You feeling okay?”

Speirs barely raises his head and mumbles something unintelligible.

“Didn’t quite catch that, sir.”

Speirs straightens and focuses on Lipton with visible effort. “I said, he must really love her.”

Lipton takes a step closer to where Speirs is sitting, hand automatically reaching out a bit in case the captain topples over. He’s already swaying a bit and Lipton wonders how much he has had to drink.

“You got a wife at home, Lip?”

“Yes sir. Her name’s Abigail.”

“I have a wife,” Speirs announces. And then quieter, “And a son.”

“Congratulations captain,” Lipton says.

“How well do you know your wife?”

“I’ve known her since high school. We got married right before I left.”

Speirs barks a laugh. Lipton bites the inside of his bottom lip, “Are you alright, sir?”

“I’ve known my wife for a month and a half,” Speirs says. His words come out too fast, too crisply enunciated for his current state of drunkenness. “I married her because I got her pregnant.” His shoulders hunch in and his jaw tenses with the angry slant of his lips.

Lipton doesn’t know what to do or what to say.

“How was I supposed to say no? And then I find out she’s a goddamn widow with no means of support except her dead husband’s life insurance. What the hell was I supposed to do after that?”

“You did the right thing.”

“Yeah,” Speirs smiles but it’s a gesture with no meaning, “You think?”

“You can learn to love her,” Lipton says, but he’s not sure if he even believes what he’s saying, “And you’ll find that you’ll love your son, no matter what.”

“Have you ever been in love?”

Lipton thinks of Abigail’s dark hair and pale skin. She had been a good friend and her mother had brought her up well so Lipton knew she’d make a good housewife—but he had never been sure about whether or not proposing had been the right choice.

“I’m not sure.”

Speirs rises to his feet and Lipton grabs him by the arm when he sways. Speirs stills, his eyes moving to where Lipton has his hand clenched in the fabric of his sleeve. Lipton loosens his grip. Speirs’s stare moves up his arm and shoulder, settles momentarily on his neck before raising to Lipton’s face. His lips part slightly and his eyes are surprisingly focused for the amount of alcohol Lipton’s sure he’s consumed. He brings his hand to rest on Lipton’s shoulder, slides it along the worn fabric until the tip of his thumb is brushing the skin of Lipton’s neck. Lipton is suddenly aware that his breathing has gone shallow and that he can feel his heart speeding up.

Speirs slowly moves his hand along the length of Lipton’s neck, calloused fingertips seeking out the pulse under his jaw. Lipton can no longer bring himself to think straight—not with Speirs staring at him like that, not with the fingers lightly pressed into his skin. He’s only peripherally aware that he’s tightened his hold on Speirs’s sleeve, that he’s dragged the other man closer. Speirs wets his lips and lets his fingers slide into the short hairs at the back of Lipton’s neck.

“Sir,” Lipton manages—and it comes out in a whisper.

Speirs immediately tenses and without another word, he pulls away, sleeve slipping out of Lipton’s grasp. He steps around Lipton without meeting his eyes and uses the low wall for support as he makes his way to the exit. Lipton wants to follow the other man, wants to make sure that he doesn’t fall down the stairs—but he knows better.

Speirs doesn’t look back. Lipton runs a hand over his face and sits where the captain had been.

_____

Someone sets their plate down on the table across from him. Lipton looks up just as Roe takes a seat and picks up the spoon.

“You seen what they’re showing about the Pacific?” Roe asks, dragging his spoon through the soup. Lipton nods.

“You staying on, sir?”

“For as long as they need me.”

Roe tears pieces off his bread and drops it into the soup. His movements are a little jerky and he keeps his eyes down on his plate, even when Lipton looks at him.

“You okay, doc?”

“Yeah, I, uh,” Roe drops the spoon against the side of his bowl with a clink, “Captain Speirs is dying to go and Major Winters is staying on.”

“Gene,” Lipton says, “Nobody will think any less of you if you want to go home.”

“I keep thinking, what if they bring on a replacement who doesn’t know how to do his job? How am I supposed to leave the boys in that kind of condition?”

“You have to think about yourself too. You can’t just keep pushing at your limits—you’ll wear yourself out.”

“Yes sir.”

“Trust that we won’t let anything happen. Replacements—they get shaped up real quick.”

“I can’t help but worry.”

Lipton nods, “It’s what makes you a good, medic.”

Roe meets his eyes this time and he smiles back. He scoops a few spoonfuls of soup into his mouth and swallows before speaking again, “Do you trust Captain Speirs?”

Lipton considers the question, “I can see how he might not be the most likeable person.” He scrapes his own spoon absently against the remnants of food on his plate, just for something to do with his hands, “But I think he’s one of the most strategically brilliant commanders in the army and I believe he is capable of leading Easy into the Pacific and leading them out again.”

He clears his throat and smiles at Roe, “That is to say—yes, I trust him.”

_____

“I hear you’re chomping at the bit to go to the Pacific,” Lipton says without lifting his head as someone walks through the open door. He’s fairly certain that it’s Speirs—he’d heard someone greet the approaching with _captain_ and he recognizes the sharpness in each step.

“Not until I whip Easy into shape,” Speirs replies, unslinging his gun. He sets it against the wall and takes a seat on the torn cushion of a once-fancy chair. He gestures at the paperwork spread across Lipton’s desk, “They got you chained up here?”

“A preview of what I’ll be doing for the rest of the war,” Lipton flips over the page he had been skimming, “Though I can’t complain. I could have been moved to a new unit entirely.”

“Reading all about the action but never stepping foot in it. Sounds like a good time.”

Lipton flicks ink at Speirs. Speirs smiles.

“Don’t remind me, captain.”

Speirs pulls out his cigarettes and tucks one between his lips before leaning forward and holding out the pack. Lipton lifts a hand to wave him off and smiles.

“Maybe later.”

Speirs pauses for a moment before sitting back and slipping the pack back into his jacket pocket.

“You’re telling me the boys aren’t in shape now?”

“Last real battle we fought was in January.”

“They keep on top of their training.”

Speirs exhales a plume of smoke, “Not well enough.”

Lipton scratches his signature at the bottom of a report and looks up at Speirs, “And to what standards are they being held?”

“You know how long those marines have been over there?” Speirs shifts so that he’s sprawled out in the chair, “You know how long they’ve been squatting in the jungles while the Japs threw god knows what at them?”

“Is that part of your new training regiment?”

Speirs takes a drag of his cigarette before answering, “Major Winters won’t let me set the forest on fire.”

Lipton shakes his head and bends his head over the paperwork again to hide a smile. Speirs smirks and watches the other man work.

“What about your wife?” Lipton suddenly asks, without raising his head.

“She’ll be in England.”

“You don’t miss her?”

“Why would I miss her?”

Lipton looks up. “What about your parents? Your siblings?”

“We don’t talk much. I’m an only child.”

There is a long moment when Lipton looks back down at the paperwork. And then, “Why did you join?”

Speirs takes the cigarette out of his mouth. “I liked the idea of it,” he shrugs, “Come on, lieutenant, I was twenty-two and fresh from learning about the conquering of Macedonia. Uncle Sam was looking for recruits—what was the other option?”

“And now you’re making a career of it.”

Speirs smiles. “There are worse men to be.”

_____

It’s nearly two in the morning when someone bangs at the door. Lipton wakes with the first round of knocks and grabs his gun and his jacket before making his way downstairs.

“It’s Sergeant Grant,” the messenger says when Lipton opens the door. Lipton doesn’t know his name—he’s a replacement. “They’re down at the hospital.”

Lipton climbs into the jeep and the replacement turns the key in ignition. Moments later, they are speeding down the street and Lipton is thinking of the worst—a stray bullet to the chest, a knife wound to the stomach. The vehicle barely comes to a stop before Lipton climbs out again.

It takes only a few moments for Lipton to figure out what room they’re in—and he sees Grant’s body spread out on the surgeon’s table and the bandages matted with blood strewn on the ground. The doctor doesn’t look up but he barely has a moment to glimpse a sliver of brain matter before the surgeon’s yelling, “Out, out! None of you are sterile!”

“You too, captain,” Roe says as he hands the surgeon a set of tiny tweezers. Speirs stops his pacing and looks at them for a moment before he turns and grabs Lipton by the arm, pulling him back into the hallway.

“What happened?”

“I’m going to fucking shoot the goddamn piece of shit who did this, that’s what happened. Some little shit fucking got drunk and shot half of the people driving past the outpost.”

“Jesus.”

“And now Grant is in there with brain damage. Fucking brain damage,” Speirs’s hand goes to his gun, “I swear to god.” He starts towards the exit before Lipton hauls him back by the elbow.

“I am just as angry as you are, captain, have no doubt about that,” Lipton says, “But think about what you’re going to do for a moment and tell me that it won’t reflect poorly on your position. You think they wouldn’t start a formal investigation if you happened to kill one of your inferiors?”

“He fucking _shot_ one of my men, lieutenant. Grant was as good as dead when we found him.”

“This isn’t like before, Speirs,” Lipton’s voice is low as he tightens his grip on Speirs’s arm, “This isn’t the middle of the war—the war is fucking _over_ and you are expendable. They _will_ try you.”

Speirs stops trying to pull his arm away but he doesn’t look at Lipton.

“I—we cannot afford to lose you. You’re needed with Easy.”

Speirs slowly eases his hand off his gun. Lipton takes a step closer though his grip loosens.

“Don’t do this.”

_____

Speirs is still awake and sitting against the side of his bed, nursing a bottle of whatever expensive vintage they had lifted from Berteschegaden—possibly from Nix’s personal stash. Lipton’s head is a little light—he doesn’t often indulge in drinking, but had made an exception for tonight.

He leans against the doorway and looks at Speirs. Speirs had picked out the best bedroom to station himself in—as always—and this one is illuminated by the soft light of a gilded bedside lamp. It smoothes out the shadows on Speirs’s face as he tips the bottle back, highlighting the long curve of his neck. Lipton stares.

“Just come in already,” Speirs says.

Lipton hesitates and takes a step in. He pauses and turns around to shut the door before moving the last few feet to where Speirs is sitting and takes a seat himself, back against the bed.

“Are we talking about something private?” Speirs asks with a smirk.

“I was just wondering what you were planning to do once we get back stateside.”

“You assume I’ll be going stateside. If you remember, I have a wife in England,” Speirs takes another drink out of the bottle, “And a son.”

Lipton wraps a hand around the bottle and tugs it towards himself. His eyes are on Speirs’s face as he takes a sip of it.

“War has corrupted you, lieutenant,” Speirs murmurs, meeting Lipton’s stare.

Lipton sets the bottle aside, out of reach for the other man. In a single movement, he’s straddling the other man, palms against the side of the bed, trapping him in.

“And alcohol has given you courage.”

“Shut up,” Lipton breathes, “Tell me this wasn’t what you wanted to do at the Eagle’s Nest.”

Speirs wraps a hand around the back of Lipton’s neck and shifts his hips so that Lipton can feel the erection pressed into his thigh. His eyes are intent on Lipton’s face as he wets his lips and drags Lipton down so that he can feel Speirs’s lips against his cheek when he speaks, “Tell me not to do this.”

Lipton turns his head the slightest bit and kisses the corner of Speirs’s mouth—and Speirs parts his lips. Lipton takes it as an invitation to slip his tongue in, one hand pushing through the hair at the back of Speirs’s head, stroking the inside of Speirs’s mouth with languid sweeps of his tongue. Speirs doesn’t respond for a moment, his body tense under Lipton’s and then—

He breaks it off and Lipton is about to pull away before Speirs scrabbles into a stand and bodily hauls Lipton onto the bed. Lipton grins when Speirs crawls on top of him, dipping his head to kiss Lipton back as he pushes the jacket off of Lipton’s shoulders and starts to work on the buttons of his shirt. Speirs kisses with all that remains of his focused determination, briefly catching Lipton’s bottom lip between his teeth as he pulls back to take off his own shirt. Lipton’s hands settle on the revealed skin, fingertips tracing along the upraised flesh of old scar tissue.

Speirs lowers his mouth to the side of Lipton’s neck, tonguing the skin under his jaw as he undoes Lipton’s belt and flicks open his pants. Lipton tenses and Speirs pauses a moment, pressing a kiss to the underside of his jaw, nosing at the bottom of Lipton’s ear. His voice is shaky when he speaks, “Tell me to stop.”

Lipton responds by slipping his fingers under the waistband of Speirs’s pants.

Speirs’s laugh ghosts across Lipton’s cheek—and then his hand slides down and curls around the base of Lipton’s cock. Lipton shifts his hips to give Speirs better access and he responds by slowly moving his hand, repositioning his grip so that his thumb sweeps across the already leaking slit. He presses a kiss to the side of Lipton’s neck and shifts down and then—

Lipton’s head hits the headboard when Speirs tongues the bottom of his cock. He’s barely aware of himself whining high up in his throat when Speirs applies a wet pressure, lips closing around the head and sliding down with exquisite focus. His hand follows in the wake of his mouth as he pulls back up, fingers slipping through the saliva as he curls his tongue around Lipton’s cock.

Lipton lasts an embarrassingly short amount of time before the pleasure pulls him taut and breaks him with a low groan, orgasm making his hands clench at Speirs’s shoulder and fist into the bedsheets.

Speirs licks at his softening cock, stubble dragging across the pattern of scars on his inner thigh.

“Jesus.”

Speirs smirks and crawls up over him until they’re kissing again. Lipton tastes himself in Speirs’s mouth and pulls him closer.

It isn’t until Speirs presses down on him that Lipton remembers to reciprocate. His hands feel clumsy and useless as he pulls open Speirs’s pants and closes his hand around the base of the other man’s cock and starts pumping, smearing pre-come over his palm. It’s an awkward angle for Lipton—one that he’s never experienced before—and he’s concerned that he isn’t doing it correctly. But Speirs’s forehead drops onto his shoulder and his labored breathing turns into a guttural sound. It doesn’t take long before Speirs comes, striping Lipton’s stomach.

It takes a moment for Speirs’s arms to stop shaking and he moves off of Lipton. Lipton closes his eyes, trying to steady his breathing until he feels fingertips dragging through the cooling mess on his skin. He opens his eyes. Speirs is looking at his fingertips, and Lipton doesn’t know how to read the emotion on his face.

_____

Everything he can actually call his own is barely enough to fill a duffle bag. He didn’t bring any belongings with him from Huntington except a photo of his family and one of his wife. He packs his dress uniform and nothing else.

“I’m staying on,” Speirs tells him the night before they’re set to leave for England. Lipton pauses in the doorway before stepping into the room and shutting the door after him. The singing of the men outside can still be heard through the closed door.

“What about your family?”

Speirs lights his cigarette and shrugs, “My wife has enough German silver to last them.”

Lipton doesn’t know what to say.

“I’m sure she’ll survive, lieutenant,” Speirs assures him with a thin smile.

“Your son will have no idea who you are.”

“I’ll have plenty of time to get to know him after I’m done.”

“Or are you going to find more excuses not to see them?”

Speirs takes the cigarette out of his mouth and looks at Lipton. Maybe he took it too far.

“Thank you for your concern, lieutenant.”

Lipton strides over to the table and picks up a scrap piece of paper and a pencil. He scribbles his address onto the page before handing it to Speirs. The other man looks at it wordlessly.

“I’ll write you,” Lipton says.

_____

Huntington in August is the same as Lipton remembers.

“We’ve had to cut back on a lot of stuff the last two years,” his brother says as he turns the car into the parking lot of the boarding house, “But Abby’s been a huge help. Mom absolutely adores her.”

Lipton looks down at the wedding ring he has put back on his hand. He isn’t used to having it on his finger yet, the same way that the absence of his dogtags makes him pat the front of his chest every once in a while.

He gets out of the car and looks up at the boarding house. There are shingles missing from the roof and much of the siding is damaged. The paint on the porch is patchy and faded. Tommy looks at him from over the top of the car, “Welcome home, Carwood.”

The door swings open and Abigail walks down the steps. She is smiling as she looks at Lipton, hands clenched into the fabric of her apron.

“Well Carwood,” she says, taking the final step so that she’s standing on the dirt road, “Aren’t you gonna say hello?”

Lipton smiles and closes the distance between them before pulling her in for a hug

_____

  


> September 6, 1945
> 
> Cpt Speirs,
> 
> I said I would write and I am a man of my word. I am a little embarrassed to write you about my life because it must seem boring compared to your daily regime of terrorizing new recruits and pillaging snuffboxes from Nazi sympathizers. However, it is the only thing I have to write to you about, so you must bear with me though this mediocrity.
> 
> I have enrolled at Marshall University under the GI Bill to finish my degree so I am taking classes in between helping my family run the boarding house. My degree will be nowhere as fancy as your history degree from Boston University but I hope to graduate at the engineering school and work in industry. I think I’ll leave the family business to my brother. He’s much more enthusiastic about maintaining the house and looking after my mom than I am. He’s a great kid. I wish he had the chance to finish high school before the war started. I told him that I’d take over and that he should go back, but he’s already eighteen and none of us can force him to go back when he doesn’t want to go.
> 
> The war hasn’t been kind to the civilians either. They’ve lifted the rations now but my brother tells me stories about saving enough flour every week to make bread. We have a tiny vegetable patch that Abby keeps back behind the house.
> 
> Anyways, enough rambling about Huntington. I’m sure news from Boston would be much more interesting. Hell, what you are doing right now is infinitely more so. Please tell me how Easy is doing. I know most of our boys came home but if I’m not mistaken, there were a few like you who chose to remain on. How much is left to do in Europe?
> 
> I hope this letter finds you in good health and that you stay safe. Please send my regards to your family.
> 
> Yours,  
>  Carwood
> 
> _____
> 
> September 24, 1945
> 
> Carwood,
> 
> I‘ve been transferred to a new company so I no longer remain with Easy. Rest assured, I had a long conversation with the new CO & I’m hopeful that Easy remains in good hands.
> 
> There are still guerrilla forces all over the country that still need to be rooted out & we doing just that. The majority of our remaining forces have been recruited to help rebuild the most heavily destroyed areas.
> 
> As it turns out, my wife in England has returned to her former husband. He was presumed killed but turned out only to be a POW. It is a shame that all my looting went for naught.
> 
> R. Speirs
> 
> _____
> 
> September 29, 1945
> 
> Cpt Speirs,
> 
> I am very sorry to hear about your wife. I am sure that she will arrange times for you to meet your son. If you are interested in fighting for custody of your son, we have a family friend who is a great divorce lawyer. If you ever need to talk about any of this, please do not hesitate to write me. I, too, have difficulty expressing my emotions out loud but I find it is usually easier to put them on paper. I will always be here to listen, or read, as the circumstances dictate.
> 
> It is a shame that you could not remain CO of Easy but if you are confident in the abilities of the new CO, I trust in your judgment. It is good to know that the boys are being taken care of properly. I am not surprised that you have been assigned to rooting out guerilla forces and I’m glad that the army is making good use of your skill. Please stay safe.
> 
> Yours,  
>  Carwood
> 
> _____
> 
> October 7, 1945
> 
> Carwood,
> 
> There is not much to say. You know the depths of my affection for my wife: very little. I suppose she isn’t that any more, since our marriage has been annulled. Sometimes I wonder what her husband thinks about the fact that she has had a son with another man. Most of the time, I cannot bring myself to care. I am a little angry that I sent her all of my silver and that she refuses to return any of it. I suppose in the end, it will all be used to benefit my son. I’m also a little concerned about how her former husband will treat my son. No doubt I will have to visit them to make a few terms clear.
> 
> I do not want to fight for custody of my son. We both know I would be an awful father & I have no interest in learning how to be a good one. This arrangement is perhaps for the best.
> 
> Please tell me more about Huntington. Perhaps I will visit when you graduate with your practical degree in engineering.
> 
> Ron

  


_____

“C’mon, Carwood,” the man across from him goads, “Tell us a story. You were over there since D-Day, you gotta have a tale or two.”

Lipton’s forgotten his name—he doesn’t know any of the men circled up around the table except for Tommy. These are Tommy’s friends—boys who were too young to go to war when it came.

“They aren’t that interesting,” Lipton says. He doesn’t really want to be here—the music and chatter is too loud and he doesn’t like any of Tommy’s friends, “I’d really rather not.”

“Oh come on,” Tommy says, setting a beer down in front of him, “You told us some stories in your letters home. I know you got some good ones. What about that time you helped take out a nest of cannons?”

“I don’t really think—”

“Aw hell, Car,” Tommy says, “I hear that one’s going down in the textbooks. You don’t need to be modest about it. Just one story.”

“Alright,” Lipton closes his fingers over the cold beer, even though he doesn’t want to drink it, “There was kind of this legendary figure in second battalion. Captain Speirs. There were rumors about him that nobody knew were true or false and he didn’t do a damn thing to verify or deny them.”

Tommy grins, nudging the boy next to him.

“First rumor was that Speirs had killed one of his own men for being drunk and disobeying orders.”

“They didn’t court martial that?”

Lipton shrugs, “He was a great officer. The army needed him around.”

“Times of war, men,” Tommy interjects.

“Second rumor was that Speirs had once handed out cigarettes to an entire group of German POWs. He offered to light their cigarettes—then he gunned them all down.”

“Cold,” one of them says.

“Last story is true because I was there. So our company was assaulting a town under the command of an unqualified lieutenant. He had split out forces into two and sent one around the back without radio command. Well, when Speirs took over command, he needed to give orders to the group who had split off. No radio, middle of a warzone. The captain literally just takes off running across town while all the Germans looked on, completely confused at the lunatic running across their front lines.”

“He didn’t get shot?”

“They shot at him, but never hit,” Lipton smiles, “The most incredible part? He ran across the town again, through all the gunfire, and came back to where we were.”

_____

Lipton shuts the door quickly so that the cold November air can’t get into the room. Abigail looks up from the couch in the common living space, “Back? Do you have a lot of work to do?”

“I figure I’d fix the leaky pipe in the kitchen today. Studying can wait until after dinner.”

“That’s fine,” Abigail says, not rising from her seat, “I thought I’d roast some chicken today. How do you feel about that?”

“Whatever you make is perfectly fine with me.”

“Fine,” Abigail looks back down at the book she had been reading. Lipton stands in the doorway for another moment, expecting his wife to say something else. When nothing comes, he pulls the bag of textbooks from his shoulder and heads into the kitchen.

He’s in the midst of replacing the section of leaky copper piping with a brand new one when Abigail walks into the kitchen and leans against the entryway.

“Carwood.”

Lipton doesn’t crawl out from under the sink when he responds, “Yes?”

“When are we going to have a baby?”

He pauses and pulls the wrench off the piping. He sets it aside and sits up so that he’s looking at Abigail, “I don’t quite think we’re quite at that stage yet. Don’t you think maybe we should wait until after I graduate before we start talking about having a family?”

“Carwood, your mother really wants a grandchild.”

“We can’t sustain a child where we are right now.”

“We’re doing just fine,” Abigail says, stepping into the kitchen. Her arms are crossed over her chest, “We’ve been doing much better since the war ended. You don’t have to pay anything for university. We still have some of your checks left over. We’ve gotten more boarders since all of the boys started coming into Huntington to attend college.”

“We can’t live here with a family. We’ll have to pay rent or buy a house, we’d have to get new furniture—all of this adds up. Where is the money going to come from? We can’t live off of nothing.”

“We have more than enough for a down payment.” Abigail’s voice is rising in pitch, “Carwood, we’re financially prepared. No matter how you look at our bank account, we’re ready. So you tell me that it’s all just in my head when I say that you’re just avoiding this.”

“I can’t talk about this right now. Please, let me just fix the pipe and we can talk about this later.”

“What? So that you can come up with more excuses for me?”

“Abigail, please.”

“We don’t even sleep in the same bed, Carwood.”

“I have nightmares, Abigail, you know that—”

“I would help you through them!” Abigail yells.

Lipton says nothing.

“When was the last time we kissed?” her cheeks are flushed, “When was the last time we slept in the same bed?”

“I just—” Lipton pleads, “I just need some time. Please, things will get better. I’ll get better”

Abigail stares at him for a moment and then she looks as if she’s about to cry just as she turns away from him and hurries out of the kitchen.

_____

_A discarded letter:_

> January 2, 1946
> 
> Ron,
> 
> Happy New Year’s from the States! I hope you were able to celebrate amidst all the rebuilding and that you at least thought twice about putting the men to work—though in all seriousness, I hope you didn’t actually have them work.
> 
> This year has started terribly. Abigail and I had another fight yesterday and I see it as a prediction for the year to come. I am not sure why this marriage is failing so spectacularly. I expected there to be difficulties, but I never expected them to this degree. I know that I am mostly to blame. I don’t think we are ready for a family but she does. In all honesty, I don’t think I am ready for fatherhood. How can I be a father when I have to attend school and have no income? Sometimes I think I can barely function in civilian life, much less teach my children how to.
> 
> I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to compla

_Letter sent in a box with a thick scarf and a pair of gloves:_

> January 2, 1946
> 
> Ron,
> 
> Happy New Year’s from the States! I hope you had a good New Year’s and were able to celebrate and I hope you didn’t work the men too hard. I hear in the news that they’re trying to pull out all of the troops now. Do you know when you’ll be out of France?
> 
> My year so far has been decent. My brother and I set off a few fireworks at midnight but I ended up retiring early. I am looking forward to going back to school for the spring semester. I have finally finished all of my introductory physics and chemistry courses and I am excited for my first materials science course. I considered taking a Roman history course in your honor but I think I’d have too much trouble remembering all of those dates.
> 
> I have enclosed your Christmas gift and I hope it finds you in good health. Please stay safe.
> 
> Yours,  
>  Carwood
> 
> _____
> 
> January 16, 1946
> 
> Carwood,
> 
> Thank you for the scarf and gloves. It was a thoughtful and practical gift. I wish I had the means to send you a gift but I figure you’ve had enough of standard army issue.
> 
> Since my last letter, I have travelled to England on leave and met my son, Scott. He is an extremely bright child and I look forward to seeing how he’ll grow up. The former wife was amiable & her husband was very polite. I have little concern that he will mistreat my son. I honestly think that this entire arrangement worked out for the best.
> 
> It’s a shame that you aren’t taking the Roman history course. Perhaps Caesar could have given you a more interesting perspective on what we fought for. Physical land and conflicting intangible ideals—men have always found reasons of exclusivity to kill each other.
> 
> I will be coming stateside in February & staying in Boston indefinitely. Please do not tell anybody that I will be in Boston as I do not wish to see anybody. I have enclosed my new address and a photograph from England.
> 
> Ron

  


_____

“Carwood, will you help me with the tea?”

Lipton drops his pencil into the crease of the textbook and walks into the kitchen. His mother is sitting in her wheelchair next to the stove where the teakettle is whistling. Lipton reaches up into the cabinet and sets the tea leaves onto the counter next to her teacup.

“Thank you dear,” she says, opening the container and shaking it. She drops a few leaves into the bottom of her cup before pouring in the boiling water. It steams despite the warmth of the kitchen.

“You really ought to talk to Abby,” his mother says.

Lipton leans against the counter, “I don’t know.”

“I don’t think you’ve been trying very hard. Sometimes, I’m not sure if you even want your marriage to work out.”

He picks up the tea container and rubs his finger along the indentations in the tin, “I don’t think I’m happy being with her, mom.”

“But she’s a great girl,” she plucks the teacup and saucer from the counter and places it in her lap, “As soon as you get better, you’ll see.”

“I don’t know how much _better_ I’m going to be able to get.”

“Carwood,” she says, patting his hand, “You haven’t been the same. You barely go out with your old friends. If you’re not studying for class or fixing up the house, you’re sleeping. I’m worried about you so I pray for you and I know that you’re going to get better. Time heals many wounds.”

Lipton lets her take his hand. He recognizes the smile on her face but he doesn’t register it.

“When you’re better, you’ll realize how truly blessed you are.”

_____

_A discarded letter:_

> February 15, 1946
> 
> Ron
> 
> You say that you don’t want any of Easy to know that you’re in Boston but you give me your address.
> 
> It just makes me wonder: if I showed up one day on your front steps without warning, would you invite me in?

  


_____

Lipton is studying for an exam at one in the morning when the front door opens. Tommy is humming as he closes the door after himself.

“Good night?”

“You wouldn’t believe it.”

Lipton looks down at his lecture notes before closing his textbook over it, “Try me.”

“Alright,” Tommy slumps into the seat across the table, his words slurring, “So I’ve been after this girl since—I don’t know—October, right? Her name’s Patricia and I’ve been trying to land a date with her. Anyways—long story short, guess where I just came back from.”

“God, please tell me you pulled out.”

“Jesus, Car, what kind of dumb bastard do you think I am? Of course I pulled out. I don’t want no dad with a shotgun standing anywhere at my wedding.”

Lip shakes his head, “Mom would kill you if she found out.”

“Yeah well,” Tommy smiles, looking pleased with himself, “Let me tell you—she has the most glorious set of breasts. And it was—wow it was better than the time me and Ab—”

Tommy straightens, his eyes widening as he swallows.

“You didn’t.” Lipton says.

“No, no, no! It was just a joke.”

“Tommy,” Lipton says, “Please tell me you didn’t.”

_____

Abigail doesn’t wake up until the sun has been up for a considerable amount of time. Lipton’s been sitting in the corner of the room since before dawn, arms crossed over his chest as he alternating his silent staring between the window and the carpet. He’s already missed his morning inorganic chemistry lecture and he hasn’t thought about his exam since Tommy came home.

Abigail stirs under the sheets before sitting up. She looks at Lipton, “Carwood, what in the world—?”

“Abigail, I know.”

“You know? Aren’t you supposed to be at school?”

“I talked to Tommy.”

She doesn’t say anything and draws her legs up to her chest. And then, “Oh.”

“The fact that you know exactly what I’m talking about doesn’t really boost my confidence here.”

“There’s no need to be mean about it, Carwood.”

“Be mean about it? Abigail, you cheated on me for a _year_.”

“Because you’ve given every indication since you’ve come back that you might actually care.”

“Stop,” Lipton says, rising to his feet, “I was fighting in Europe and you were having sex with my brother.”

“Everything was over the moment you came back. I said that it had to be, Carwood. I wouldn’t do that to you.”

Lipton makes a disgusted scoffing sound, “You wouldn’t what? You wouldn’t cheat on me in front of my face?”

“Why does this even matter?” she demands, “It’s not like you really even care—you’re looking for any excuse just to get out of this marriage.”

“I just spent two years of my life watching men under my command get blown up. I just spent two years of my life freezing to death—“

“Don’t you dare try to guilt me, Carwood Lipton,” she says, low and angry, “Don’t you dare try to pretend that you don’t regret marrying me and now you’re looking for a way to blame this on me.”

Lipton sits down again. Abigail looks at him, arms around her knees.

“I think we should get a divorce,” he says.

_____

It’s snowing in Boston even though it’s the middle of March. Lipton steps out of the cab onto the quiet street, shoving his hands into his pockets. He turns to look at the apartment he’s standing in front of. Light illuminates the inside of the kitchen of the ground floor but it’s empty. Lipton can see the pots hanging up above the sink.

The wind pushes past him, sweeping snow into the front of his coat. He’s forgotten a scarf. The cab has gone.

He steps up to the front door and knocks a few times before dropping his hand back into his pocket. He shifts his weight from foot to foot, running his finger over the teeth of his house keys in his pocket, over and over. He hears footsteps, then the scraping of the lock—

“Li—Carwood,” Speirs looks like a stranger in civilian clothes. The thin cotton fits to his shoulders too tightly. “What are you—? Come in.”

Lipton stamps the snow off his shoes and steps into the house. Speirs closes the door after him.

“Huntington get too boring for you?” Speirs asks. Lipton looks around. There is a table in the living room and a bookshelf crammed with books—nothing else.

“I was in town to visit an aunt and I thought I’d drop by,” Lipton answers.

“Want a beer?”

“No thank you.”

Speirs looks at him with a smirk, “Still resisting the vice? We’ll get you yet.” He pulls back one of the chairs at the table, “Sit down. Make yourself at home.”

Lipton folds his coat over the back of the chair Speirs has pulled out and takes a seat. Speirs drops into the only other chair at the table, pulling out a pack of cigarettes. He holds it out to Lipton.

“I’ve given up smoking.”

Speirs’s looks at him and smile is wider than before. He lights the end of his cigarette and sets his lighter on the table, lifting his eyes to look at Lipton, “Where does your aunt live?”

“Somewhere near Harvard, I think.”

“You walk all the way over here in the snow?”

“No, I took a cab.”

Speirs’s words ride out on a cloud of smoke and a smile, “You’re getting soft on me there, lieutenant.”

Lipton smiles back, shaking his head. “Are you on leave, sir?”

“I think you could probably drop the formalities, Carwood.”

“Are you on leave, Ron?”

“I am on indefinite hiatus until I decide what to do with my life.”

“I was under the impression that the military would be your life.”

“I’m taking a break to be sure,” Speirs taps the ashes off the end of his cigarette into an ashtray on the table and adds, “Though I’m sure I’ll be bored before summer starts and begging Uncle Sam to take me back.” He looks at Lipton, “How have you been?”

“Good. Classes are going well. My wife and I uh—we’re getting a divorce.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“Yeah, it’s uh—it’s mostly been my fault. I haven’t really been the most attentive husband,” Lipton picks up Speirs’s lighter and flicks it open before closing it, “I haven’t been doing a good job talking about the war.”

“A good job talking about the war? What the hell is that?” Speirs leans forward, “What the hell do they expect you to say? It’s none of their goddamn business and you aren’t obliged to tell them anything.”

“Sometimes,” Lipton says, “Sometimes I think I feel more exhausted over here than I ever did in Europe.”

Speirs keeps his eyes on Lipton’s face but doesn’t say anything.

“I’ve had something on my mind for a long time,” Lipton says, “And I just need to know—do you remember that night?”

Speirs doesn’t answer but his eyes slide from Lipton’s face to the cigarette in his own hand.

“What was that, Ron?”

Speirs brings the cigarette up to his lips and takes a drag. There’s a moment when he holds the smoke in his lungs and when he answers, he’s looking at the lighter under Lipton’s hand.

“Whatever you want it to be.”

Lipton laughs but he doesn’t mean it. Speirs’s eyes flick to his face before looking he’s looking at the cigarette again.

“Sometimes, I thought I had just imagined all of it,” Lipton says, “I honestly didn’t know if any of it had happened.”

Speirs puts the cigarette in his mouth and holds his hand there, finally drawing his gaze back up to Lipton’s face.

“And sometimes when I looked at Abigail, sometimes when I sat in church, I was so overcome with this feeling of guilt—because even if I hadn’t, I dreamt about it and I wanted it and it didn’t sit right with any of the vows I made to my wife or to my faith.”

Speirs’s eyes drop back to the table.

“I don’t have anyone else to talk to about this,” Lipton says, “I know that I should have put this behind me a long time ago. So tell me that we were just letting off steam. Tell me that we were in unusual circumstances and that it didn’t count.”

Speirs stabs his cigarette out in the ashtray and drags a hand through his hair. He looks to his bookcase, to the door, then at Lipton’s face. His voice is toneless, “We were just letting off steam. We were in unusual circumstances and it didn’t count.”

Silence. Speirs can’t keep his eyes on Lipton’s face for long.

“Jesus, you’re a bad liar.”

“Look, Lipton—what the hell do you want from me?”

Lipton leans forward, grabs Speirs by the wrist and kisses him. Their teeth clash—and then Lipton slows down only to have Speirs pull him forward by the front of his shirt, tongue shoving into his mouth. He breaks his wrist free of Lipton’s grasp and wraps it around the back of Lipton’s neck, pressing in closer. When they break apart, Lipton pulls back with a whispered, “Shit.”

“For fuck’s sake,” Speirs growls and hauls him to his feet. He steps away and opens one of the doors leading away from the living room. Lipton can see an unmade bed crammed up against the wall, dogtags hanging on the headboard. Speirs steps into the doorway and turns around to look at Lipton.

“You can walk through this door and finish what you fucking started,” Speirs says, “Or you can pick up your coat and walk out of here and I will pretend that I didn’t spend the last six months thinking about you and that you never visited. I will believe myself when I say that we were just blowing off steam in unusual circumstances and you can feel better about having resisted the temptation of the devil and make up with your wife.”

Lipton doesn’t move for a long moment—then he steps towards Speirs. He cups the other man’s face and presses his lips against the corner of Speirs’s mouth. Speirs breathes in, the tension draining out of his shoulders and jawline as he relaxes under Lipton’s hands. It isn’t long before Lipton finds himself sitting on the bed and then being pushed back as Speirs bites lightly at the stubble on his jawline, fingers slipping under his shirt.

They separate only to discard clothing. Speirs alternates between sucking at Lipton’s neck and smoothing his tongue over the skin and Lipton traces every dip of Speirs’s ribs with his fingertips, memorizing the positions of puckered scar tissue. Speirs moves down, running his tongue along the length of Lipton’s collarbone, swirls his tongue around a nipple, and dips it into his navel before licking up along the length of his half hard cock. He takes the head into the wet heat of his mouth—this time, staring up at Lipton as he slides down slowly.

Lipton can’t look away—there is a naked intensity on Speirs’s face, a sort of desperation and want that overwhelms him. He pushes shaky fingers through Speirs’s damp hair just as the other man sucks, cheeks hollowing with the effort—and Lipton’s back arches, an involuntary whine pushing from his lips. Speirs swirls his tongue around the tip before pulling off with an obscene sound. He noses along the length of Lipton’s cock, briefly laps at his balls, before finally settling with his lips against the mess of scars on his inner thigh. He spends a moment tracing the crisscross of where they had stitched him up before moving back up to kiss him.

“Don’t come,” Speirs murmurs and then he pulls away to rummage through his nightstand. Lipton runs his fingertips down the dip of Speirs’s spine, looking at the profile of Speirs’s face against the dim residual light from the living room. A moment later, Speirs is kissing him again and slicking up his cock at the same time, whispering, “Don’t come,” against his lips.

And then Speirs is pulling away and oh Jesus—pushing a finger into himself. Lipton looks at Speirs’s bent head, the part of his lips, the way that his breathing hitches when he pushes a second finger into himself. Fuck—it’s the most arousing thing that Lipton’s ever seen and he’s never been harder in his life.

“Okay,” Speirs murmurs touching Lipton’s knees, his hips, and he’s giving him a half smile that he can barely make out in the dim light. He strokes a hand along Lipton’s side, says, “Relax,” and positions himself.

Lipton can’t stifle a groan when Speirs slides down on him—it’s so fucking tight. He makes an effort to control his breathing for a moment as Speirs adjusts—and then he makes up his mind. When Speirs cants his hips back, Lipton flips them around, pinning the other man to the bed.

“Come on then,” Speirs breathes, his hips shifting up, dick leaking pre-come all over Lipton’s stomach from where it’s pressed up between the two of them. Lipton repositions himself, bending his head to mouth at Speirs’s shoulder as he pushes forward. Speirs swears quietly in Lipton’s ear, fingers digging into his shoulder, “Harder.”

Lipton builds up a rhythm that makes Speirs’s fingers scrabble uselessly at his back, that makes his breathing grow labored, that makes him whimper a bit with every stroke—and maybe for a moment he understands the significance of how much control Speirs has ceded to him—but then he’s lost in the pleasure that collects at the base of his spine, that sparks along the nerves of his legs—and it isn’t until he feels the warm stickiness of Speirs’s come against his stomach that he gives in and lets the pleasure drown him.

_____

When he wakes in the morning, he is alone. The scent of coffee comes in through the open door. Lipton slides out of bed and starts to put on his clothes.

When he looks up again, Speirs is standing in the doorway, a mug of coffee in each hand. He holds one out to Lipton. Lipton takes it and wraps his hands around it, unsure of what to say.

“Your aunt must be wondering where you are. I’ve got a telephone if you want to call her.”

“I don’t have an aunt in Boston.”

Speirs’s expression doesn’t change.

“I can leave if you need me to.”

“I don’t want you to leave.”

Lipton’s hands tighten around the mug. He thinks of Abigail, of his mother and his brother, of university. He thinks about responsibility.

He thinks about fever dreams and the sound of gunfire.

He thinks about the tilt of Speirs’s smile.

“I can stay.”  



End file.
